Breathe Again
by JayEz
Summary: Fill for this prompt: "Post S3 canon-compliant, after the Moriarty/Mary smoke has cleared and the boys are finally together. John tops Sherlock for the first time. Sweep me off my feet!" This is brief and basically PWP. Enjoy!


**Breathe Again**

**Summary: **Fill for this prompt: "Post S3 canon-compliant, after the Moriarty/Mary smoke has cleared and the boys are finally together. John tops Sherlock for the first time. Sweep me off my feet!"

This is brief and basically PWP. Enjoy!

**Author's Notes: **Written for merlenhiver.

Many thanks to Iriya for the brilliant beta job! Heavily inspired by the Sherlock metas circulating AO3 and tumblr.

xXx

John breathes out and pulls the trigger. Once, twice, three times. Moriarty is dead after the first bullet hit – the other two were just because John really wanted to keep shooting.

Sherlock reels back as Moriarty's body falls to the ground, his head whipping around to where the shots came from. Blue eyes widen when they find the shooter.

"John," Sherlock gasps and of course he is shocked to see him there. After all, the detective thought John was still with Mary.

John swallows, unable to say the words but Sherlock's brilliant mind has connected the dots a moment later when he sees the blood on John's shirt.

Sherlock is at his side in an instant, his gaze unusually unfocussed, his breath coming fast. John has never seen him like this, which is unsettling.

"I'm fine, Sherlock; it's okay, it's not my blood," he explains, meeting Sherlock's eyes and promptly losing himself in them.

In retrospect, John won't be able to say who moved first. Or if they both had the same idea, the same urge. All he knows is that one moment Sherlock is staring at him in relief and the next, lips are on his and John feels Sherlock's hands cradle his face; gently, as if it were breakable.

John grabs the front of Sherlock's shirt and pulls him close and for the first time in months, John can breathe again.

xXx

The fallout is quickly dealt with and John is sure they owe Mycroft more than a few favours for this. Mary is currently at the hospital in a coma but the baby is fine, though John has no idea of what to think about that or how to cope with the situation.

He will cross that bridge when he reaches it, he decides.

xXx

On their first night back at Baker Street, the tension between Sherlock and him finally reaches a point where John can no longer take it. He leans in, holding Sherlock's gaze, giving him enough time to withdraw. He doesn't, so John closes the distance, capturing Sherlock's lips in a chaste kiss.

The detective is still tense, John can feel it through his shirt (the purple one, John likes the purple one).

"Relax," he murmurs against Sherlock's ear and relishes the shiver his action earns him in return.

John loses track of time – kissing Sherlock is like a drug; thrilling, captivating, all-consuming and he never wants it to stop. Then Sherlock shifts and his thigh brushes against the front of John's trousers. Feeling the erection there makes Sherlock gasp for the first time that night.

John is immediately obsessed, craving to hear more sounds slip from those lips. He has always loved making his partners whimper, moan and writhe under his touch and tongue and he intends to do all of it and more to the man before him.

He sets to work on Sherlock's shirt buttons, pushing the fabric apart to reveal the pale skin of Sherlock's torso. John's mouth wanders down Sherlock's throat to his nipples and he flicks his tongue over each of them, feeling Sherlock's body twitch under him.

He simply has to kiss him again, so John does so, pressing their bodies together because he, too, wants to feel Sherlock's hard-on. John moves his hips slowly from side to side, the friction enough to make Sherlock's eyelids flutter.

The next thing John knows, there are hands working his belt open, moving on to his fly next with frantic movements. The tension is back in Sherlock's shoulders, which curbs John's enthusiasm a wee bit.

His knowledge of Sherlock's sexual history is sketchy at best yet what he is sure of is that he needs to slow this down, for both their sake's.

"Sherlock," John whispers, taking a hold of Sherlock's wrists and stopping him from pulling John's trousers down. "We have all the time in the world."

Confusion flitters across Sherlock's face.

John smirks, an idea striking him. He walks Sherlock back towards the sofa in front of the wallpaper with the smiley. The detective allows it but his eyes are sharp. John wants to make them glaze over with lust.

When Sherlock's legs hit the sofa, John gently pushes him down and leans forward, brushing his lips against Sherlock's once more before saying softly, "Just enjoy."

Sherlock looks as if he might reply but in that moment, John lowers himself onto his knees. It isn't as graceful as it used to be back in his army days, but it is certainly enough to make Sherlock's pupils dilate.

John runs his hands up Sherlock's still clad thighs, his eyes exploring the naked chest in front of him, shoulders and arms still wrapped in the shirt. John's eyes travel downward, following the dust of dark hair disappearing into the waistband of Sherlock's trousers.

He brings a hand up to cup Sherlock's erection through the fabric, causing his hips to jerk. Sherlock makes an aborted sound, which morphs into a low keening when John's hands find belt buckle and fly. He lowers the trousers but leaves the pants for now. John needs to hear Sherlock, craves it with every fibre of his being. Usually the man can't shut up if in the mood; it is uncharacteristic for him to be this quiet in bed.

John mouths the shaft through the cotton of the underwear, looking up at Sherlock's wide-eyed expression through his lashes. Sherlock's breathing is a mess before John has mercy and pulls the pants down, revealing a beautiful cock that is beading precome.

He has seen both of their blood work – John knows that Sherlock has, too – so he brings his tongue out and licks at the slit, not bothering with protection.

Sherlock gasps, his cock twitching.

It has been years since John has last given a blowjob and it takes him a bit until he remembers the finer aspects but once he is confident again, he gives Sherlock all he has.

When he closes his lips around the glans and sucks hard, he hears the first moan out of Sherlock's mouth and the sound sparks pleasure in John's groin.

Using one hand to hold Sherlock's shaft, John frees his own erection with the other. He doubts the detective notices – Sherlock's eyes are closed and his cheeks are flushed, his hands clenching the sofa cushions in a white-knuckled grip.

John takes his time, explores every inch of Sherlock's cock and testicles. Sherlock positively yelps when he sucks both balls into his mouth, massaging them with his tongue and hearing that it is almost enough to send John over the edge.

Everything is so new, so unbelievable – he is blowing Sherlock, for fuck's sake. It seems John's brain still needs a bit to catch up.

In the meantime, apparently, John's cock is happy to take over every cognitive function. John takes Sherlock deeper into his mouth, bobbing his head and running his tongue up and down the shaft, occasionally tonguing the slit and stroking his own cock to the rhythm of his mouth.

Above him, Sherlock has started to make quiet noises; everything from whimpers to moans and finally, John can see the residual tension leaving Sherlock's body. John runs his fingers down to Sherlock's balls and mimics his tongue's earlier actions, thrilled when the detective begins to writhe on the sofa, obviously unaware of what he is doing.

A guttural moan is John's undoing and he spills all over the floor. Sherlock follows him over the edge a moment later, filling John's mouth with warm fluid.

He swallows, licking his lips, desperate to catch every last drop.

xXx

Sherlock is the one to initiate the next time, coming up behind John as he puts the dirty breakfast dishes in the sink.

John feels hands on his shoulders and turns around slowly, seeking Sherlock's eyes. His flatmate is wearing a peculiar expression; it is almost reverent as his hands move down John's chest, only the bathrobe between his fingers and John's skin.

Apparently, Sherlock finds what he is looking for in John's eyes because he steps closer and leans in, brushing his lips against John's.

He has a brief flash of him flinging Sherlock around and rimming him against the kitchen counter but he isn't sure whether that would be acceptable. He doesn't want to push Sherlock too hard. John can't say why exactly, but he feels like he needs to give Sherlock room and enough time to withdraw from whatever it is they are doing.

So instead, John lets his hands explore, dip beneath the fabric of Sherlock's gown, trace his spine and enjoy the shiver he receives.

Soon their kissing turns frantic and John can feel the length of Sherlock's cock against his stomach. Torturously slow, John opens first Sherlock's robe, then his own before pulling his pants down and stepping out of them.

He feels Sherlock's eyes on his cock before he sees the detective staring. A hand reaches out tentatively and long fingers wrap themselves around John's erection. He can't help but moan because it is finally happening, Sherlock's hands on him, tossing him off…

John works his own hand into Sherlock's underwear, mimicking Sherlock's rhythm until Sherlock rests his head against John's shoulder and shudders. The hand on John's cock stills but he already has other plans. Gently, he pulls Sherlock's hand off – when his flatmate's head snaps up to look at him, John smiles before pulling Sherlock even closer until their bodies are flush against each other.

John licks his hand, spreading saliva as much as he can. Sherlock's pupils dilate as he watches him bring the hand down and close it around both of their erections.

Everything from that moment on passes in a blur pleasure, Sherlock's gasps and silent moans, his head buried in the crook of John's neck until, with a jerk of his hip, Sherlock climaxes. John has enough presence of mind left to loosen his grip and only keep wanking himself.

The knowledge that he is using Sherlock's come as lubricant has John hurtling over the edge in no time at all.

He risks a glance at Sherlock while they are both catching their breath. He has never seen the detective look like this – a dazed smile playing about his lips, his eyes shining with joy. Happy, John realises. He looks genuinely happy.

He brushes a lock of dark hair out of Sherlock's face, effectively making him look up.

"I love you," John says, part of him worrying if it is too soon while the other doesn't care – he needs to say this.

Sherlock stares at him, unblinking, eerily reminiscent of the day John asked him to be his best man (_the past is the past_, John thinks vehemently).

He opens his mouth then, but John has a moment of panic.

"You don't need to. Don't feel like you have to –" he begins, realising how pathetic he sounds. Suddenly everything seems so real, the dried sperm on his stomach and hand, the pants on the floor.

"John."

Sherlock swallows, averting his eyes for a moment. When he is looking at John again, his expression… John has no idea how to describe it.

"I've been meaning to tell you for a while now."

He wants to ask, wants to know _for how_ long but John knows something like that will only lead to further questions and more importantly to the realisation that he has been a bloody idiot and he could have had this so much sooner…

So he doesn't ask. He smiles, hoping it will convey everything he can't express.

Sherlock smiles back, that real smile of his John barely sees and that makes him positively giddy with excitement.

John steals another kiss before Sherlock can say another word.

xXx

The sex that follows that night is inevitable after their conversation. The day passes with Sherlock starting a few new experiments while John struggles to update his blog and takes calls from Harry, Mike and even Greg. Mrs Hudson brings them tea and biscuits with a knowing smile, which makes John blush like a sodding teenager.

The things Sherlock does to him.

John has spread out on the sofa and is watching telly, simply enjoying the fact that the madness of the past months is over and he can kick back (or at least until Mary awakes from the coma and there will be decisions to make). He hears footsteps behind him and catches Sherlock as he emerges from his bedroom, hands covered in surgical gloves.

"How're the experiments going?"

"I can't say yet, John; these things take time," Sherlock scolds, making John feel a bit daft. It is soothingly normal.

That is, until Sherlock stops next to the sofa, eyes glancing from the chair to the sofa, clearly unsure of how to proceed.

"I think the sofa's big enough for two," John offers.

Sherlock opens his mouth, probably to argue that the sofa is only big enough for two people when they are sitting on it, yet his mind catches on quickly. He pulls off the gloves and throws them in the direction of their kitchen. Lazy bastard.

Then this man, this brilliant man, takes the chance and lies down next to John who shuffles back to give him some room. Sherlock doesn't put his back to him, however. He lies down facing John, obscuring the view of the telly.

John can't say he minds.

Especially when Sherlock's long fingers stroke the exposed skin of his neck, making John swallow. Blue eyes trace the movement of his Adam's apple before Sherlock follows with his tongue, licking a path up his neck until his mouth is level with John's ear.

"Take me to bed, John," Sherlock says and this time, it is more of a request, nearly a plea, than an order.

John growls and pushes at Sherlock's shoulders to get the man off the sofa and they make their way upstairs, careful on the steps but once they are inside John's bedroom, they abandon their silence just as their clothes.

Some time later, they are both breathing hard, lips kiss-swollen, standing at the foot of the bed.

"What do you want?" John asks, his voice only trembling slightly. He feels as if he is in a dream, a very good dream, with a naked Sherlock in front of him, looking down at him with so much emotion it makes John's chest clench.

"I want to feel you inside of me," Sherlock rasps, and the suggestion and the arousal in his tone make John's cock twitch.

He growls in response because words can't express how much he wants this.

John closes the distance between them and maneuverers them until he can walk Sherlock back to the bed and push him gently onto it. John retrieves the lubricant he bought the last time he went for groceries from the bedroom drawer. There is an open bottle in there as well but John doesn't want to use it for Sherlock because Sherlock deserves better. The best that John can give him.

Those usually sharp blue eyes are wide and dark when John meets them again and that alone sends a shiver down John's spine. He crawls over to kneel between Sherlock's invitingly open legs, then bends forward, abandoning the lube on the sheets in favour of touching Sherlock everywhere he can reach.

A flick of his tongue over a nipple makes the detective gasp so John does it again, working the other one between his fingers. Sherlock arches off the bed, rubbing his erection against John's torso.

He licks a path down Sherlock's chest, taking a moment to admire his partner's cock before swallowing him down. Sherlock moans softly, still restraining his sounds somewhat but he is distracted enough that the slick fingertip against his perineum comes as a surprise.

John moves up and down his length while circling Sherlock's entrance, trying to relax the muscles while his eyes never leave Sherlock's face. He keens, then glances down and finds him watching. Sherlock nods, his expression somewhere between strained and aroused.

John takes his time, tossing off Sherlock with one hand while the other works him open first with one, then with two fingers. When he adds a third, Sherlock tenses, making John pause.

"Don't you dare stop," Sherlock snaps, his tongue coming out to wet his lips.

John licks his way back up to capture those lips in a kiss, slowly fucking Sherlock open with his fingers.

"Tell me when you're ready," he says, eyes drawn to the movement of Sherlock's throat as he swallows.

"I'm ready."

John enters him easily, yet he still goes slow, captivated by Sherlock's face. His mouth is open in a soundless gasp, his eyes closed. John starts to move, altering his angle with every thrust until he draws a surprised yelp from Sherlock. The sound would have been funny in any other context, now it only makes John harder.

It takes some time until John's mind stops circling around _'This is real, this is actually happening, I'm inside him, we're actually shagging'_ and baser instincts take over, speeding up his thrusts.

Sherlock's eyelids flutter with every thrust, he gasps every time John hits his prostate and finally doesn't hold back the moans when John abandons caution and fucks him with abandon, snapping his hips fast and hard.

"Oh fuck, John," Sherlock whimpers, his hands clenching the sheets in an iron grip.

Hearing him say his name like that is John's undoing – he grabs Sherlock's hips and pulls him back with him as he sits back on his knees and abandons every illusion of control he still had. He needs to hear Sherlock say it again and again and again and Sherlock does, "_Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn_" becoming his mantra until with a guttural moan, Sherlock climaxes and spills his release all over his own chest.

John swipes it up with his tongue, not caring if the position is more difficult for him than it used to be when he was younger. The taste of Sherlock fills his mouth and suddenly, there is a hand in his hair and on his shoulder, holding onto him through the aftershocks.

Sherlock clenches around his length and John thrusts once, twice, three times before he stops, buried to the hilt inside Sherlock and experiences the hardest orgasm he ever had.

It might have been minutes or a whole hour before John's head is clear enough to pull out and he collapses next to Sherlock on the bed.

Sherlock turns onto his side and watches him with a dazed expression.

"Shagged out is a good look on you," John can't resist saying.

"I love you," is Sherlock's response. He doesn't blurt it out. He says it in a rough voice with clouded eyes and in that moment John knows that no matter what happened or how long it took them to get to this point, it was worth everything in the end.

Because Sherlock bloody Holmes loves him and allows John to kiss him breathless in the second bedroom of 221B.

xXx

**End Notes**: I set out to write PWP and somewhere along the way, plot snuck in. I hope I met merlenhiver's hopes for this prompt, even if it's John's POV only but it felt like it needed to be written like this.

Don't be shy, give feedback :)


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